The Human Offensive
by Ghostwritten
Summary: The war of the Second Renaissance, through the eyes of a news reporter embedded with the last human army.
1. Default Chapter

"My name is Max Schroeder. I'm a reporter for the New York News."  
  
The colonel looks me up and down, inspects my press pass, then waves me forward.  
  
"You're late," he says. "But embed orientation is just starting. You probably haven't missed anything, or at least anything important."  
  
I walk past him, then look back.  
  
"Down the hall."  
  
Right. Moving along...  
  
This is my first assignment as a war correspondent. This is my first time walking into the heartland of the machines.  
  
..............................  
  
Desert stretches in every direction for as far as the eye can see. It is in this place, the cradle of civilization, that reporters first became "embedded" with the military. I was just an infant at that time, but the history books and newspapers told me everything I needed to know. In that era, our greatest fear was terrorism, not machines.   
  
My countrymen marveled at their military superiority as they routed Iraqi forces. It took 27 days. One of the quickest wars in memory, and, I was told by my father, the soldiers who participated in that war were the cogs and machinery in the greatest force to walk the earth in the history of man.   
  
I didn't doubt it. But looking at it now, how satisfied could we be with ourselves? Our enemies were just men, after all.  
  
The newswire on my uplink tells me the first salvos were fired an hour and fifteen minutes ago. Any minute now, the men and women of the 18th Infantry Division will be on the advance, and I will be moving with them.   
  
My wife didn't want me to go. "Tell your editors," she said, "to send someone else. I can't bear worrying about you, Max." But it's the career opportunity of a lifetime, I tell her. War correspondents go on to greater prominence, better gigs. Think of the book offers. Think of the kid's college trust fund. Think of the things I'll see. She held on to me tighter than she ever had before seeing me off at the Air Force base.  
  
I look back at my wheels -- a 6,000-pound M28 Omnitank. Twelve gun turrets. A pulse cannon. Rocket-propelled magnetic gatling. Machine versus machine.  
  
It will be time to go soon. There's a war to be fought, and stories to write.  
  
...............................  
  
TIKRIT -- Coalition forces launched the first major assault of the Machine War today, pummeling Zero One positions in the south before laying siege to a major factory senior military officials said was a strategic point in the machine's infrastructure.  
  
Members of the 18th Infantry Division advanced from the south while the 22nd Marine Brigade Unit moved in swiftly from the north as F-220s and B-6 bombers pounded Zero One positions around the city. Explosions could be heard miles away, and frontline reports indicate the machines have fortified defenses in anticipation of the ground invasion.  
  
"We took out anti-aircraft batteries here, here and here," said Maj. General Paul Fabrizio, addressing reporters in Tel Aviv, where U.S. and Israeli officials have set up central command. "The initial strike took out a central networking station. We believe communications have been cut off between machines surrounding the city and Zero One's network."  
  
Israeli, French and Russian forces launched a simultaneous attack in what was formerly known as Saudi Arabia. Dual strike fighters/bombers pummeled Zero One positions there, dropping more than 65,000 pieces of ordance in a six-hour period, senior Russian and French officials said.  
  
A combined British/Canadian strike was expected to be launched later tonight, and Chinese forces are assembling to the east oF Zero One, with more than 2.4 million troops massed on the machine's border.  
  
In a speech before the United Nations just minutes after the first strikes were launched, President Tyrone White, flanked by the leaders of more than 130 countries, rallied the international community for what he said was "the final test of man's ability to survive."  
  
"The machines have put a permanent blemish on the history of the Earth," White told the assembly. "In order to keep our place in this world, we must prevail. The machines do not have man's spirit, man's freedom. We will withstand this test."  
  
At the Pentagon, senior military officials said warplanes would maintain defensive positions around North American in anticipation of a counter-attack. Meanwhile, six more carrier battle groups were expected to reach the Gulf region after being deployed more than a week ago. More than 800,000 American troops will have massed in the region to support Operation Humanity by week's end, Pentagon officials said, joining the 5 million-strong coalition force already poised to blitz Zero One positions.  
  
...........................  
  
There are thousands of them. Columns and columns, stretched for miles. I can't see where they end, or even if they do end.  
  
Above, American and Israeli drones soar to the front, lighting up the sky with electro-bombs as the machine columns rush to meet our forces.  
  
I'm huddled in the back of the M28, and next to me Sgt. James Queenan, a 28-year-old tank tech from Atlanta, lights up a cigarette.  
  
"I can't wait to kill my first one," he says. "Can't wait."  
  
The two other tank crew members laugh.  
  
Are you nervous? I ask Queenan.  
  
"The fuck I should be," he says, taking a drag. "Believe you me, there's only one way the machines will leave this area intact -- over my dead body. And I sure as hell know that ain't gonna happen."  
  
...........................  
  
MADINA, Saudi Arabia - British forces suffered massive casualties Tuesday, the 14th day of Operation Humanity, as Zero One forces launched a major counter-offensive on northern coalition positions in the overnight hours.  
  
Reports filed Tuesday evening estimate the dead at more than 65,000, with tens of thousands more missing.   
  
British commanders ordered their forces to fall back midway through the fighting, as warplanes from the Canadian and Spanish militaries flew some 400 sorties to offer air support to the ground troops.  
  
...........................  
  
"We don't know how many we've killed," the general says. "How do you quantify that? Do machines die? Do they even live in the first place? Do they get ground up and thrown in the garbage heap and forgotten once we bomb them, or do they get refurbished to be sent back out to battle again? These are the kinds of questions I can't answer."  
  
A flurry of hands go up, and every reporter in the news conference pipes up with questions in cacaphony. Will you deploy nuclear missiles? Are the machines retreating? We've heard the machines are trying to take back the southern cities? Is this true? How many coalition troops are dead?  
  
That last one gets an answer.  
  
"We don't know exactly," the general says. "We have lost fewer than 10,000. The coalition as a whole? I don't know. Fewer than 200,000. But the important thing to realize is that we are advancing."  
  
............................  
  
I used to hate it when the fall would sweep in and we'd adjust our clocks to the growing darkness. Winter is beautiful, but after a while the short days depress me.  
  
Now, it's like we're all living in Alaska during the dark months. And they don't end.  
  
That's not to say it isn't bright.  
  
In front of us, a million red eyes blink, each one belonging to something that's poised to impale, dismember or snap our fragile human bodies. They're on the ground, lumbering forward in measured steps, and in the air, hovering in low circles. Above them, a canopy of metal shifts and changes.  
  
I feel a tug at my ankle and look down to see Sgt. Queenan motioning me back into the cab of the M28.   
  
"I'll be right there," I say.   
  
I look up long enough to see the columns of fighter jets on the horizon. There are thousands of them, many proudly bearing my nation's fifty stars.   
  
A rhythmic clunk begins, and I spin around to watch the forward infantry units start to advance.   
  
Machines, meet the US of A.  
  
I say a silent prayer for the boys in the mechanized gear on the ground and their counterparts swooping down from above, then pull myself down into the M28.   
  
As I clamp the hatch shut, the first explosions light up the night sky.  
  
............................  
  
The ground is rumbling. Around us, I can hear the sounds of metal collapsing on metal, muffled by the steel case of our armored vehicle.  
  
Intelligence is streaming into the M28's cab in real-time, displaying what looks like a video game, until you realize that all the blue lights that die out are your people, your kin. Human.  
  
Still, we've carved a path.   
  
The machines look like they've consolidated after the first few hours, but air support from American, French and Chinese warplanes have driven them back while the mechanized divisions advance on the ground.   
  
We're positioned on the right flank, with an Austrian exoskeleton infantry unit leading in front of us. Proximaty warnings on the M28's screen show the first columns have been engaged by the machines.  
  
The lieutenant has begun barking targeting orders, and now the explosions are getting louder.  
  
I can hear our turrets start to raise.  
  
...........................  
  
Pyramid-like, it rises up against a backdrop of swirling metal squids and warplanes. With entire squadrons of fighter jets knocked from the sky, the machines have finally fallen back. I guess you would call this air superiority. I feel sick thinking of how many of our people died in the process.  
  
But now the bombers reign. Even with the hatch open we won't be able to see them. They're targeting from the clouds, dropping hell on the machines.  
  
My computer is knocked from my hands as our M28 shakes.  
  
"What the hell was that shit, gentlemen?" the leiutenant asks.  
  
"Machine fire 20 meters north of us, sir," a gunner named Cordova says.  
  
I am about to pick my computer off the floor of the tank when another blast rips the ground, rattling as the ground bounces from the impact of another volley.  
  
Queenan grips the back of Cordova's seat, peering into his display as he responds with the pulse cannon.   
  
On the main screen, the blue lights have gotten fewer and fewer. I tried to guess how many strong we still were. Five thousand? Three thousand?  
  
For the third time in as many minutes, I reach to the floor for my computer. This time there isn't a blast to knock me off my feet, and I dial immediately to the Associated Press VidWire. 12th Infantry is still broadcast, so I log in.  
  
I see men in exoskeletons, maybe fifty. Squids are everywhere.   
  
Why isn't the camera moving? I check my connection to make sure I'm getting the complete feed. I am.  
  
Jesus. I've known those guys from WNN since my days as a cub reporter. I swallow hard and click on the last story they got to file.  
  
............................  
  
It's red. All red. I hear the writhing of steel tentacles above me, but everything else is dead quiet. We are one fewer, and our M28 will not move again. But we don't dare turn our network again.  
  
They'll know we're in hear. Does it matter, though?  
  
Sparks begin to accompany the metal writhing, and I decide now is a good time to think about my life. Counting the minutes.  
  
............................  
  
"My name is Max Schroeder. I'm a reporter for the New York News."  
  
I sat up in bed? Where had that come from?  
  
My wife stirs next to me. She lets out a soft groan, and then her eyes are open, blinking up at me.  
  
Before the words come out of her mouth I know what she is going to say.  
  
"I had a bad dream about you," she says.   
  
I don't respond.  
  
"You went to war," she says matter-of-factly. "There was a war, and so many people were dying. I begged your editor not to send you, but he did."  
  
I grab my pack of Parliaments from the night stand and light up a cigarette, taking a few puffs while my thoughts rearranged themselves.  
  
"Yes, well," I tell her, "I'm here, aren't I?"  
  
She smiles, then gives me a peck on the lips. "Yes, you are. I'm going to make some coffee, hun. Want some?"  
  
I nod.  
  
My dream keeps revolving over and over again in my head as she leaves the room. What a sick mind I have. But why did she dream the same dream? I don't dare tell her. I mean, what could that mean?  
  
No matter, now. Everything is normal. But I can't shake the feeling, as I look around our darkened bedroom, that everything is so green. 


	2. I've got today in digital

I feel so groggy, yet at the same time I feel as if I've slept for months.  
  
Yawning into the back of my hand, I survey the other people on the platform. Below us, cars speed by and people are strolling Westchester Square, taking shade from the sun under the L.  
  
I snatch my bag from in front of my feet and start walking toward the rail as soon as I see the green 6.   
  
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.  
  
The train rolls. Zerega Avenue. Castle Hill. Parkchester.   
  
I lean back folding back the News. I get the page 53 treatment today. Thanks, copy chief.  
  
There are some mildly interesting stories, but I lose myself in my thoughts.  
  
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.  
  
We aren't picking up many people. Remembering the time I got on the subway at 8 a.m. and didn't even realize it was a Saturday until 125th Street, I checked my watch.  
  
It's Tuesday. Have we invented a national holiday I haven't heard about?  
  
Something is odd about this whole arrangement, physically, and it's got nothing to do with the lack of people. It doesn't quite hit me until I step off onto Grand Central and out of the grand concourse to the street.  
  
It's misty, but crisp. Chaotic, but organized. Green, but many hues.   
  
And, as the fumes of the subway platform give way to a the steam from a hot dog vendor, the thought comes to me: I've got today in digital.  
  
I haven't felt this way since I took a sugar cube of acid my sophomore year of college.  
  
I approach the corner and am about to cross when I double back toward a news stand, my stomach pulling me along as retribution for burning my last two waffles this morning.  
  
As I pull my wallet out to pay for a coffee, I turn my head back to look at the intersection and see its grid superimposed over my field of vision. There's a beautiful girl with dark hair crossing halfway, and some street vendors on the other side, slickly packing up their makeshift storefronts before two cops a half block down bust their operation. There are private school kids in uniforms, ties loosened as they move in a battalion toward the diner across the street, and a leggy woman in a sharp business suit hailing a cab. I can see the logo of the coffee shop behind me in her retina.  
  
But the cab isn't stopping for her. Instead, it's heading straight into the path of beautiful black-haired girl, and she is oblivious.  
  
Ignoring the difference, I dash straight for her.   
  
And it feels like I'm in a dream, the way the ground lurches behind me and I seem able to skip steps on the concrete.  
  
The cab is close, but I'm closer. I shove my full weight into the girl, knocking her forward. I would mumble an apology, but I'm out of air, and just when I start to think, in a split second, that I've done it (yes, I've done it!) the cab clips my right leg.  
  
I spiral toward the curb and smack up against a parked car, hearing glass crack as my cheek hits the passenger's side window before I slump down onto the street. I can hear the cab's tires screech, and the pop of a fire hydrant before water spouts out in a rush.  
  
I reach out gingerly, pressing my fingers into my thigh and knee. Miraculously, I don't feel a twitch of pain.  
  
People are staring, and a kid who looks about 20 years old offers me his hand to hoist me up.  
  
"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You're lucky you didn't break the entire right side of your body."  
  
"You're telling me," I say, dusting myself off. The cabbie has got out, and he's walking toward me, a look of wrinkled concern on his face. Bizarre. "It's okay, I'm all right."  
  
I survey they damage and look for the girl I just risked my neck for, but she's nowhere to be found.  
  
What girl?  
  
The ground ripples. The cascade spouting from the fire hydrant reverses itself and telescopes back into it's spout, and the hydrant is right side-up again and gleaming. The car window that cracked against my face spiders inward, and in half a second it is clear again.  
  
What was that? What was what?  
  
There are people around me, staring at me, except they've all got a look on their faces that says they can't quite remember why they've been paused in the middle of the street, looking at a stranger. Well, what are they staring at?  
  
I have an urge to dust myself off, but I don't know why and my clothes are spotless when I check them over.  
  
As I turn south to make the four-block walk to my office, I can't help but think what a wierd morning this has been. But I can't remember why. 


	3. Our Perfect New World 10

I haven't done a damn thing this entire week. Being a crime reporter means that sometimes, during a lull in crime, the workload will be light. I can't write stories about criminals if there haven't been any crimes.  
  
But I haven't had a week like this, not even during my first years as a reporter at a small daily in a backwoods county upstate. This is New York for crying out loud. Invariably, somebody's murdering, or someone else is scamming, or the cops shake up a kiddie porn ring or fat capo.  
  
But the entire newsroom is quiet. Usually this place sounds like the call-in room for a 24-hour telethon, but now not a phone is ringing. Our fax machines churn out more than 5,000 press releases a week. This week, nothing.   
  
I look to the next desk from me. Zayra is staring at her computer screen, looking annoyed. She's tough and extremely sharp, one of our top political reporters. She's got a disarming beauty to her, which distracts most sources from a top-shelf bullshit filter and enough patience to supply the Hudson for a month. The first day she showed up in a skirt I told her she should have been a TV reporter and almost got slapped for it.  
  
If she's annoyed, I know I'm not the only one who's wondering what the hell is going on.  
  
"What's on your plate?" I ask her.  
  
"What does it look like?" she answers my question with a question. "I have about as much work to get to as you do, which is to say, none."  
  
"Right. Coffee?"  
  
"Yes, let's."  
  
..........................  
  
I take a drag from my cigarette in between sips of coffee. Eleven-thirty in the morning and I'm on my third cup already. Not that I need it. I'm wired.  
  
Zayra leans back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She exhales sharply, blowing a curl of dark hair away from her mouth.  
  
"Let's write about this," she says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"This," she repeats. "All of this. It's not just us, Max. There's something wierd going on. I came home yesterday, and Jeff tells me everyone in his company has had their salary doubled. My neighbors who were taking a second mortgage out on the house six months ago just bought a new Mercedes and a sailboat. My uncle hasn't walked without a cane in years, but when I came to pick him up for a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, he was playing basketball with my nephew. Come on."  
  
Across from us, three men in sharp-looking black suits and crisp black ties sit down. The fact that they're indoors doesn't seem to register with them -- they're all wearing dark sunglasses. I feel like I'm in a badly done FBI flick.  
  
"Well, I mean, maybe it's our social circle or something. Maybe it's just one of those odd coincidences. I'm sure it's not impossible that everyone's doing well at the same time, for whatever reason. Chance? I don't know."  
  
Outside, it starts to drizzle, and the wind slaps tiny drops against the window of the coffee shop.   
  
"I called the morgue this morning," she says, stirring half a packet of sugar into her cup. "Not one body has been brought in all week. In a city of 10 million people, Max."  
  
"Well..."  
  
The rain starts to pick up.  
  
"No, there's something going on. There's something definitely going on. After I called the morgue, I got to thinking, and I called every major hospital in the city. Guess what?"  
  
"I don't know, what?"  
  
"Not one birth since Monday. The nursing supervisors were telling me they don't remember ever having a week like this."  
  
The rain drops are getting heavier, tapping the window in what almost sounds like a steady rhythm. If I didn't know better, I would swear the raindrops were making a song today.  
  
"Allright," I say. "Let's pitch it to the eds and see what they say."  
  
........................  
  
It's 12:15 a.m., and I'm standing next to Zayra, the both of us looking over the copy chief's shoulders to give a final check-over before the pages are set to print.  
  
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?  
  
Plastered across page one, bold. Unemployment rate in five boroughs drops to zero, page 2A. Overabundance of cabs, subway seats strikes odd note with New Yorkers, 11A. Cops, courts: No crime for eight days, 3A and 4A. Homess shelters empty, 4A. When did this city get so clean?, page 5A. Israelis and Palestinians form peace pact, 6A.   
  
.........................  
  
Who was staring at me in the dark?  
  
My eyes flipped open. Slowly, quietly, I reached for the lamp on my nightstand and clicked it on to see my wife curl up, tugging the blanket over her head, and an otherwise empty room.  
  
6:59.  
  
I slide the alarm switch off a minute before it would have buzzed, and, grabbing a t-shirt, start to do a groggy stumble down the stairs.  
  
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.  
  
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.  
  
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?  
  
What an odd headline. I scan down to the byline and see my name, and Zayra's.  
  
A flicker of familiarity skips across the back of my brain, and then it's gone. The newspaper shimmers for the smallest of an instant, the words seemingly liquid on the newsprint.  
  
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.  
  
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.  
  
ARE WE...  
  
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.  
  
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.  
  
For the fifth straight day, the cover blares financial news. Biggest gains in history on the markets. Real estate inexplicably booming at the same time. Consumer spending up.  
  
I don't care for financial news.   
  
I toss my paper on the couch and start to walk back to the kitchen.  
  
......................... 


End file.
